Si vous n'avez rien à me dire
by wobuzhidao
Summary: Sherlock turned to once again look the agent up and down. The man turned and walked up the short flight of stairs which lead to the door, he paused and turned again. The warm light streaming from the open door surrounded him with a golden glow. "Well aren't you coming?" John let out a short laugh in spite of himself and ran to follow. plunging into the rabbit hole at last.
1. Soldier, Sinner, and Detective

The tall elm trees lining Baker Street were bare, arranged in neat, evenly spaced rows, like soldiers in their winter uniform. The sky above was a pale whitish grey, covered in cloud and signaling the snow that was soon to come. In the pale light of the afternoon the world seemed almost to glow with an eerie light.

It was a posh neighborhood, way too expensive for someone like him to afford even with the significantly large salary his work provided. Even if he could afford it, he doubted he would want to live here, to many wealthy tosspots for his taste.

A haunting melody drifted down to the deserted street corner where John Watson stood in the early winter chill, muscular arms pulled to his chest in a vain attempt to warm himself against the icy onslaught of the wind. The sound of the rich violin resonated, rising and falling with the wind, but surely no windows were open on a day like this.

He had his back to what looked like a cozy café, but all of the blinds were down and none of the lights on. Owners must be on holiday, or maybe they just could bear to set a foot out of their door, not that he blamed them of course. Today was one of those days when even the bravest of London's citizens dared not set a foot outside their cozy parlors where the comforts of hot tea and gran's old crocheted blankets were close at hand, and yet the music seemed to grow louder, rising into a shattering crescendo, before fading back to its original level.

It was beautiful in a sad, bordering on extremely depressing way, John thought, and wondered for a moment what kind of a person could produce such a piece so lovely and ethereal, but cold and uncaring. He laughed in spite of himself, his deep voice ringing out. Here he was standing around daydreaming about what was probably some skinny sixth-former scarping out the second piece in a Suzuki book, when he had a job to do. Idiot.

"Focus Watson, they are not paying us to sit around twiddling our thumbs" the tinny voice reprimanded through the tiny earpiece.

" Shut it. We both know that the chances of the agent even showing up are slim, and I'm freezing my arse off out here, while your sat at your comfy little desk at HQ, so sod off."

" Ok, ok, but M wants you to hurry it up, the last two missions have been a total waste of time and we need results, now. Apparently one of those higher up MP assholes is causing trouble."

John groaned. Politics. No matter what happened, be it flood, massacre, or genocide, no matter what you had been through or how many lives you had taken for queen and country, it all came down to politics in the end. The men in three piece tweed suits who spent their days in dim gentlemen's clubs, the walls painted deep burgundies and brown, with snifters of brandy or bourbon and the stench of tobacco and old leather were the players of the game, the chess masters. Moving their marble pieces from square to square. After all what was John Watson but a loyal knight, a piece to be moved?

He fought in their wars and when a bullet wound to the shoulder sent him back to England, he threw himself into rehabilitation until John Watson was almost the same, if not better, than he had been when he enlisted at the age of 20.

His body was a weapon, skills perfectly honed, and when he took a shot, he never missed. That was why after a year out of the corps. While he was in the gym wearing nothing but a pair of old greys sweats and a sheen of glistening sweat he was approached mid pull-up by a gorgeous man in an immaculate suit and tie whose only question was this:

"Dr. John Hamish Watson, former Army doctor and Captain in her majesties royal marine corps. How would you like a chance to kill some more bad guys?"

John had smiled, and gracefully dropped to the ground, flexing the muscles under his bare golden skin. He smiled.

"Hell yes, sir"

Ever since then he had been on missions all around the world, retrieving information, rescuing politicians and British nationals, and eliminating targets. He slipped a hand into his pocket running a calloused hand over the reassuring form of the walther ppk. He enjoyed the feel of the cold metal against his skin and the tingles it sent rocketing through his whole body.

They had been playing this game of cat and mouse for months now. A group of terrorists that seemed to target anything and everything at random, never leaving any clue or trace had been wreaking havoc on the UK. Their first attack had been on the underground, the second an old restaurant in China town, the most recent had been the abandoned wing of a hospital. No one knew what they wanted, if they wanted anything at all, for they never left any demands or notes. Barely anyone had been hurt in these attacks; in fact the only people injured were just suffering from shock. It was this, which made the government unsettled. What kind of terrorist want's nothing, hurts no one and acts completely randomly? It made the parliament very nervous, and M was constantly dragged into meetings where a bunch of highly educated idiots made speculations and accusations about things of which they knew nothing. They were scared more than anything else.

John didn't blame them at all.

This tip off had seemed like a blessing. They had received an anonymous call, untraceable, telling them that on this street, at this date, an agent would be assassinated, but even that was not much to go on. They did not know if the tipper had meant an agent of the group or of the British government. They knew nothing, but then again they couldn't afford to dismiss it. Beggars can't be choosers after all.

For a long time there was nothing, and then a shot, the sound of shattering glass, and John snapped into action. He did not even have to think; his mind had already subconsciously run through all of the possibilities and scenarios through which he might be put.

No use chasing after the shooter, if he was a professional (which of course he was) he was long gone from the scene. That would be a waste of time. Only reasonable choice was to find the target.

He ran to the door of the town house, 221A, only sparing a second to catch his breath before kicking it down. The entrance way was empty, but John could hear the sounds of someone crying travelling down from the second floor landing. It was quietly though, so soft in fact that most would have missed it. John walked up the stairs which lead to the living space slowly, gun held out in front, the safety off.

The apartment was empty.

Every room he passed had no furniture or pictures, and the walls were covered in old and peeling victorian-esque wallpaper that had seen better days.

The house for the most part was dim, none of the lights turned on. At long last after what felt like hours of tense silence, he finally reached the source of the noise.

A young woman was kneeling on he ground her arms holding a man in a tight embrace. Her white silk shirt was stained with the scarlet of his blood, but she did not seemed to notice. John stood there in the doorway for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. There was no protocol for situations like this. You killed the mark and got the hell out of there before anyone showed up to witness you. You never had to see the wives or girlfriends of the men you killed. You never had to see the pain in their eyes as they looked at the lifeless bodies of their loved ones.

"003! Report immediately. What is your situation?" John did not respond, in fact he didn't think he even breathed. He just stood there staring and waiting for something, anything to happen.

After another moment the woman looked up, finally seeming to realize that she was no longer alone with her sadness.

As she turned to face him, John finally got a good look at her in the dim light of the room. She was beautiful, like a portrait of Esmeralda or Carmen incarnate with thick dark hair, almond shaped brown eyes accented by heavy brows, and skin the color or milky coffee. The trails of half dried tears stained her roundish face, making her long eyelashes clump together.

There was no emotion on her face as she looked at him levelly, just a mask of perfect calm, but her eyes flashed with some emotion, which John could not name.

And frankly, he didn't want to.

He turned slowly on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving the woman alone.

As he stepped out again into the crisp winter air he spoke at last.

"003 reporting in, mark is dead, but there seems to be a bit of a complication. Target was with an unknown woman, she is still alive, but I don't know her status yet. I will hang around and find out. Shooter struck camp, so the guy must have been the intended target, she is most likely unimportant but it doesn't hurt to double check.

* * *

It was a perfect shot. The bullet had hit the man directly between the eyes, piercing through his skull.

The cops had showed up almost immediately, called in by some worried neighbor who had heard the shot, their presence only serving to complicate, matters even more difficult for John. It was practically mandatory for every member of MI6 to hate the police. You practically had to agree to it when you applied for a job there. The reason for this ardent dislike was fairly straightforward. They had no idea what the hell they were doing and more often then naught, made it more difficult for the people who did to do their jobs.

"003! Are you there?" He grimaced, pulling the tiny earpiece out and crushing it under the heel of his boot. Trying not to relish the sound of it cracking too much. The guys up at Q branch would give him so much crap for that when he came into work tomorrow. They always were so particular about getting their toys back in one piece.

Headquarters had been clamoring away at him through his earpiece for the better part of an hour since the shooting. What hey thought he could do with half of the met standing around with lukewarm cups of Starbucks, he had no idea.

It had gotten dark quickly, what with the winter weather and now the only lights came from the street lamps and the ridiculous amount of police cars with their lights flashing red and blue.

It didn't matter though, because for now all he could focus on was the woman. She was sitting on the steps leading up to 221B, covered in a thin yellow blanket and surrounded by police officers and a few detectives.

They were firing questions at her and seemed to be ignoring the fact that she had just gone through an extremely traumatic experience.

The wind had picked up, a few fat flakes of snow begging to fall around them, and John was sure she must be freezing, and yet no one offered to give her a jacket or even let her go inside. She was wearing nothing but the same bloodstained silk shirt from before, a black pencil skirt and thin nylon stockings. Her feet were clad in black high heels. _God she must be cold_. The doctor side of him was appalled, and suddenly he found himself walking over to the huddle of officers, ignoring their protests and pushing his own jacket into her elegant hands.

She looked up at him, eyes steely, but with a bit of a smile on her face.

"Thank you, sir." He voice was sweet, and melodic but there was a sharp wildness to it. It was…commanding.

"No problem-" he began to say but was cut off by the sound of someone reprimanding another person very loudly in a voice that was such a low, seductive purr, that it was almost obscene.

"Listen Lestrade, I don't know how many times I need to tell you this, for it to penetrate your thick skull, but if anyone should be worried about anyone else contaminating a crime scene it should be the other way around."

"Sherlock-"

"Anderson is an idiot, and I will not have him fucking about with the evidence, he already spends enough time accomplishing that with agent Donovan."

"Listen, I just-"

" It was you who asked for my help detective inspector, so I will repeat myself once more. Get. Them. Off. Of. My. Crime. Scene. And I want Anderson an extra two hundred meters away from the site at all times. I don't want him bringing down the IQ of the whole street. Is that understood?"

This was followed by a long pause as if the whole world ha paused to let the man speak, and then finally, a begrudging "Ok. Alright, have it your way…" The sea of police parted, allowing John to see the two speakers. The first man looked to be in his late forties, with graying hair and a kind face, worn down by frown lines. John recognized him at once as Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and overall nice bloke who had proved very useful to MI6 in his younger days. He was well liked by almost all of the double 0 agents, because he never gave them a hard time if they got caught at the scene of a crime or disturbance (which is where they practically lived). Even 007 was reported to occasionally go out for a drink or two with Greg.

His companion however, looked like some pagan god, who demanded a sacrifice of the hearts of virgins. Well maybe that was a bit much, but John had occasionally been known to be a bit of a romantic. Harry had always mocked him for it, but he had always loved to read the romantics. The agent found them charming even when hey were entirely wrong, and beautiful when grotesque.

The man, who must be Sherlock, was tall, thin and unbelievably pale. He had cheekbones so defined that they looked almost sharp and piercing ice-blue eyes, all framed by a mop of unruly black curls. He was swathed in a thick blackish-blue coat, with the collar pulled up to protect him from the wind. The overall effect was striking to say the least.

'Sherlock' just stood their, looking slightly irritated as the legion of police cleared out at what could only be described as a glacial pace, until the only ones remaining on the street were John, the woman, Sherlock, and Lestrade.

"You'll have to leave to Lestrade."

"Sherlock, you can't kick me off of my own crime scene."

Sherlock gave him a withering look, which could have turned anyone into stone, and the detective backed off.

"Whatever just don't… oh forget it you never listen to me anyway." He trailed off as he made his way to the squad car on the other side of the street.

"I'll text you what I find in the morning."

"Yeah yeah, just attempt not to traumatize the witness even more." was the only response, and then the sound of the inspector's car driving off into the night.

"So tell me, what is an MI6 operative doing at _my_ crime scene?" The man said the words slowly as if savoring the taste of them upon his tongue. John froze, muscles tensing automatically, relaxing quickly, but not fast enough for someone like Sherlock to miss.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." John said, smiling his easy smile and making his voice as warm and slightly confused sounding as he could. "I was just in the neighbor hood for a walk, and stopped to see what all the ruckus was about. I noticed that no one had given this young woman anything to stay warm so I offered her my coat." He put on a slightly scandalized expression at the police's incompetence, before looking back at Sherlock another small smile on his face.

Only to have it vanish as he saw the look of absolute disbelief in the man's ice blue eyes, accompanied by a smirk and the slight quirk of one perfect eyebrow. However, the man did not respond, instead turning to face the woman who was staring intently at her shoes as if the black patent leather heels held the secrets of the universe. John could see the slight tremors running through her body and wondered for a moment whether this was because of the cold, or the sadness.

Sherlock seemed about to speak, but was cut off by the opening of the door to 221B. In the doorway stood an old lady, dressed very comfortably in a mauve skirt and a hideous jumper, with crocheted teddy bears on the pockets. An old pearl necklace was wound loosely around her thin neck, and her mousy brown hair was cut short and sensibly. John thought she looked like a character out of some 1920s movie.

"Sherlock!" she chided, "You'd better invite the poor girl in! You can't interrogate her out here, shell catch her death of cold!" and then she said in a softer voice to the woman. "It's alright dearie, he's just a bit forgetful sometimes. Why don't you come up and ill make you a nice cup of tea… and maybe some biscuits too, you look starved. "

"Thank you very much… Mrs.…?"

"Hudson, darling. I'm his landlady, but he seems to think that I also function as a housekeeper." She sounded slightly annoyed, but only slightly. There was a certain fondness there, john thought, making a note of it for later.

The woman laughed and took the land-lady-not-housekeeper's outstretched hand and followed her into the bright warmth of 221B Baker Street.

" I was intending to invite her in Mrs. Hudson" he began, but they had already disappeared into the house, so the only one to hear the remark was John.

Sherlock sighed and turned to once again look John up and down. He turned and walked up the short flight of stairs which lead to the door, he paused and turned again. The warm light streaming from the open door surrounded him with a golden glow.

"Well aren't you coming?"

John let out a short laugh in spite of himself and ran to follow, consigning himself to fall into the rabbit hole.

* * *

A/N: Well! I have always loved this fandom and really wanted to write a fic for it, and damn this thing practically wrote itself. Please review and let me know if you like it. The title is the first part of a poem by victor hugo. I chose this because i think it describes a lot of the dynamic between John and Sherlock. love you all,

wobuzhidao


	2. Death and a Maiden

The house he entered was twin of the one he had been in earlier, down to the same wallpaper, although this was in better condition. He followed Sherlock, up the stairs trying not to stair at the incredibly thin hips swaying slightly in front of him as the man ascended. The detective, for that's all he could have been if Lestrade trusted him with a case like this, had stripped himself of his large coat, revealing a fine, but incredibly thin white silk button down and creaseless black slacks. But what were the police doing consulting with a P.I.? They wouldn't, though, would they? And what the bloody hell kind of name was 'Sherlock' anyway?

"Curiouser and curiouser." John intoned, his tone betraying the amazement and mistrust which for fighting for supremacy at the forefront of his mind.

Sherlock spared him a quick glance as he reached the second floor landing, his face was expressionless but his eyes had a slightly amused glint to them. It was as if this man, this anomaly, could see right through him. God knows, that John had met his share of skilled interrogators, but those icy blue orbs could cut through him like warm butter.

It was…unsettling, to say the least.

The stairs came to an end, and John found himself in what would have been a cozy flat, had it not been for the chaos of objects, papers, and books which covered every available surface. John himself was a bit of a nutter when it came to cleanliness and organization, and could not resist the urge to begin stacking up a pile of books, which were spread out on the small table by the banister. There seemed to be no order, or commonality among the books. A battered copy of Arabian nights in what appeared to be Arabic, a Japanese dictionary, and a few copies of encyclopedia Britannica, which upon examination proved to be covered in illegible miniscule handwriting. Although there was one, which stood out amongst the rest, a tiny black book, its title engraved in golden-cursive letters. John moved to open it, forgetting himself for a moment when…

"While I enjoy the concept of individuals who enjoy order, I would prefer it if you did not peruse my personal belongings. After all, I don't even know your name, Mr. MI6." The sharp, annoyed sounding voice came from the general direction of the couch. The agent snapped to attention, quickly dropping the offending articles onto the table, and marching tail between his legs to sit on the opposite end of the sofa, as far away from the detective as was human possible if you were sharing the same piece of furniture with someone.

The rest of the flat, or at least what he could see of it from his perch on the edge of the sofa, was just as big of a mess as he had at first thought. The kitchen table, which could bee seen through an archway perpendicular to the wall behind him, was covered in a mountain of junk. A Chemistry set, complete with boiling flasks full of florescent liquids was surrounded by petri dishes and notebooks. Private Investigators were known to be eccentric but this was on a completely different level, and was that a skull over the mantle piece? His eyes travelled across the room, noting the smiley face painted with spray paint, and the bullet holes with which it was liberally dotted. At long last he finished his circuit, and his eyes landed on the reason for his entrance. Well one of them at least, if he was going to be brutally honest with himself.

The woman was sitting there in an old wing back chair from the reign of Victoria, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, steaming china cup of tea in her hands. John noted that she was still wearing her blood stained shirt, and wondered if she had declined to remove it in favor of one of the Mrs. Hudson's proffered jumpers. The landlady had moved into the kitchen, from which the sounds of someone rustling around could be distinctly heard as she cleared up the kettle before making her exit after a "Good night dearie' and a 'be nice to the girl Sherlock!'

Upon the old woman's departure silence regained it's claim over the room for a moment, before the interrogation began.

" Now. I want you to tell me what happened. Tell me how you knew this man, every detail is important." Sherlock began, and John was taken about by the incredibly bored sounding tone. Most interrogators, or detectives at least made an effort to sound sympathetic, but Sherlock sounded more like he was remarking on the weather than discussing the assignation of a man, whose teary eyed girlfriend was sitting across from him.

She swallowed gingerly, a pained expression crossing her lovely face.

" My name is Durga Morten, I'm from a little town just outside of Harpurhey, in Manchester, we both were actually. Thomas he- he…" her voice choked, and John thought she would begin crying again, but she continued. "He was my boyfriend, we were gonna move into the flat next door, you see. I think he meant to propose to me soon. Mum and dad never liked him much, always wanted me to marry a Hindu." Her tone turned bitter. "The thought of me being with a white boy, a catholic no less…I think it disgusted them." She looked at them both levelly, but John could see the faint tremors running through her hands.

"What did he do? Your boyfriend, I mean?" John asked, looking over at Sherlock to make sure he hadn't overstepped, this wasn't his investigation after all, but the man had not moved. In fact he was just staring at Durga, those piercing eyes scanning and categorizing every inch of her.

"He did personal security, you know for footballers and stuff. His mum left him some money when she died, nice woman. Always liked me. Anyway, He would go off sometimes for jobs, he said, but…"

" You doubted this?" Sherlock asked quickly, his voice sounding harsh after her dulcet tones. Durga kept her eyes down, looking at her tea.

" Thomas…I thought at first he might have been messing around with another woman, but.."

" What was it he was doing?" John prompted.

"He got in with a bad crowd, some really bad people."

" Did he ever mention anything to you about attacks, like the one two days ago?" John asked, trying to gauge whether or not the 'Thomas' was a member of this group.

"No, he never said. Do you think it had to do with that?"

" It might have done, yes."

Her large brown eyes widened in disbelief, watery and sad. They seemed to John to be lit with a dying light, as if something were slowly fading away from her. He knew that look, was all to accustomed to seeing it stare at him from the mirror, during his days in the war.

'Why?' they asked you, 'what is this all for.'

"No.. Thomas wasn't like that… He was a good man. He would never want to hurt anyone. He wasn't a terrorist." She grew increasingly more hysterical, until tears were streaming down her cheeks.

" Then why did they want him dead?" Sherlock asked, although it seemed as if the question was more of a rhetorical one; a thought spoken out loud. When she had finally calmed down enough to, she answered slowly, her voice rough with emotion.

" Thomas said he had borrowed some money from them…and that to pay them back he was doing odd jobs, you know? Picking up packages, guarding a couple of the guys. I told him that he had to pay them back, so we took out a deposit. Most of what we had…"

When she didn't continue, john felt the need to push the issue.

"Why? Why not just call the police if you felt you were in danger?"

"Because she was scared…" Sherlock trailed off, still sounding as if he were not quite with them there in the living room, and then snapped back into reality, staring the distraught woman straight in the eyes. "What was it you were afraid of?" John could almost see the crackle of energy around the detective.

"They started watching us. Men in black cars trailed me to work, one was always outside our flat…at first I thought it was nothing, but then…"

She was twirling a piece of dark brown hair between her thumb and fore finger that had fallen out of her tight updo, held in place with a hair pin. The pin was made of some sort of rosy stone, and topped with an exquisitely carved onyx rose. Durga was staring out of the large window next to the sofa they were sitting on, still red eyes scanning for something in the early morning. John wondered what it was she was looking at, or rather thinking about.

"Ahh… I see." The detective whispered, blue eyes shining with sudden understanding. Gone was the tone of blatant boredom replaced with something akin to…quiet reverence or realization.

John looked between the pair of them, unsure of what was going on.

"Sorry, but I don't quite follow.

" They took her. For how long? Two-three hours, no more than that…" She turned, looking directly at John, voice calm and steady. He suddenly felt cold, shivering slightly under her scrutiny.

" They pulled me off the street, knocked me out with something. When I came to, I was in a room with no windows, just a large chandelier. A man came into the room and everything went black. I woke up again in my bed; there was a cup of hot tea on the bedside table. Milk and one sugar, just the way I like it." There was no fear or anger on her face, which usually appeared when people stirred up old memories of events like these. Just emptiness.

"Did you ever see their faces?" John asked delicately, not wanting to push her back into hysteria.

Sherlock snorted derisively.

"Of course she never saw their faces! This was a warning, it was intended to frighten them both into fleeing, and it worked, didn't it?" His head snapped over to the witness, awaiting the affirmative he knew would come.

" Next day, I told him I wanted to move to London, so we picked up and moved. A friend of ours told us about this neighbor hood, so we came to check it out…and-and that was when it happened…" Tears began to stream from her eyes but she continued. " There was just one shot, and h-he was d-dead. Just lying there…and the cops showed up soon after, and the rest I'm sure you know. I know, I know they did it…those men they didn't care if he got in their way. Maybe he talked… It was my fault, I wanted him to get out…I-"

The woman trailed off into a fit of silent sobs. She made no mention of John finding her in the apartment, why? Why was she protecting him? He had to know what was going on here.

It was Sherlock who finally broke the silence.

" I think we can stop pretending now, although I must congratulate you on a magnificent performance. It was truly inspired." Both John and Durga looked at him in shock.

He sounded amused, but only slightly, by the wreck of a person across from him; tear tracks fresh on her face. Sherlock had pulled out a small black cell phone and had begun to text furiously.

"I'm sorry, but what?" John was truly confused, everything this woman had said had made perfect sense, and yet this insane, gorgeous man seemed to think it was, an act?

" Oh don't be thick, it's obvious."

"Not to me it isn't"

Sherlock dained to glance up from his text with a look utter disbelief, and a not so slight degree of distain, face contorting into a haughty mask.

" God! You are all so vacant, you, Lestrade, the police. Look at her clothes, god what is your name? It will be irritating if I constantly have to refer to you as 'you', as it is entirely inefficient."

" Watson, John Watson, and what about her bloody clothes!"

" Well _John_, they are expensive as is that pin in her hair. Far too expensive for someone who claims to be from some tiny little town located near one of the most notoriously dangerous neighborhoods in Manchester. A place where reportedly, only 8.6 per cent of adults possess a university degree, and under a third of the population living in homes they actually own. To top it off, the unemployment rate is 8.4 per cent and 60 per cent of the district's people do not own a car. Parents probably migrant workers, boyfriend a part time bodyguard? No it doesn't add up. And then there is the apartment. This is an expensive neighbor hood, a young couple, and the boyfriend in trouble with the mob? They don't have the funds for this and even if they did they would have used it to run, not to come into an enemy stronghold, a place where it would be easy to have him disappear off the street one night on the way home. Look at her, John. Tell me what you see?"

The agent hesitated, not sure of what to do, running a gun calloused hand though his hair in frustration. He cast Durga a furtive glance, but she was staring into her china cup again, now almost empty.

" I see a young woman who has just suffered significant trauma, in a shirt covered in her boyfriends blood. I see someone who should be comforted, someone who did not ask for any of this. An lady who had part of her taken away and destroyed in from of her…"

John stopped, puzzled. Why did she not say anything in her own defense? His mind automatically began running through all of the possible symptoms of a stress or trauma related illness might be.

Sherlock looked at the man on the other side of the sofa, an inquisitive shine in his blue eyes. 'Interesting' they seemed to say, but then the mocking tone was back in full force.

" Is that really it? Honestly, I was under the impression that you Double-oh agents were supposed to be trained to look for these kinds of things. With all of our lives in your incompetent hands, I must say that I am surprised the whole country hasn't gone up in flames, an if you add in the astounding inefficiency of the police force...Look John! I mean really observe. That perfume, the way she holds herself, tall and straight, no no no no no, "Durga" here is straight out of an etiquette book. Nice choice of name by the way, a Shakti? I'm impressed; you even picked the one who can slay gods. The devil incarnate. So tell me _Durga_, how long until they send another babysitter for you?"

"I'm sorry, I don't quite follow." John said, feeling like he had entered the twilight zone or something. He was so engaged in the rest of the man's monologue that he didn't register the fact that Sherlock _knew_, because how could someone who didn't even know his name until a minute ago know that he, John Watson, had a license to kill.

Instead a current of increasingly chaotic thoughts swirled around the forefront of his brain. What was this nutter on about? Babysitter? What the bloody hell was a Shakti? How were his eyes that blue? Perfume? John was beginning to regret crushing his com, because having back up available to come take this loony in for a mental inspection sounded very enticing. He looked over at Durga to see how she would respond to this insanity, but sensed immediately that something was wrong.

She looked different, changed somehow. The delicate, troubled woman melted away into something completely different, she look less like a victim and more like a predator.

Full lips, pulling into an overly dramatic pout as she lounged in her chair, all pretenses abandoned.

"It's quite alright John darling, Sherly here is just a very clever boy." Her voice had dropped an octave, a sultry purr. The chavy accent had vanished giving way to one John couldn't quite place, decidedly not English. "Did you like the name? I thought it was a nice touch; a little bit of death does the body good, and you do look so specter like, I couldn't help myself. Thomas always was such an idiot, I'm glad the bastard's gone, he was fond of taking…liberties. Anyway, your right about the clothes, Channel, very nice but I have always preferred jeans and jumpers." Her smile was wicked, as she glanced meaningfully in John's direction, causing his cheeks to flush rather brightly.

Sherlock leaned back into the sofa, smirking.

"As for the next handler, they should be along soon. My employers do not like loose ends, so we had best conclude our little chat quickly."

"You didn't have anything to do with his death." It was a statement, not a question.

She rose gracefully, walking over and leaning down to whisper in Sherlock's ear in answer, just loud enough for John to here. "You've caught me, but I'm afraid there is nothing you can do to me, _this time_. Clean as a whistle darling, I don't miss the bastard, but I had nothing to do with his death. Besides,I am _greatly_ looking forward to our future together."

Sherlock's smirk was small but still present as he replied.

"And what makes you think we will have a future? I don't think someone in your situation stays anywhere very long and even then I don't think who ever you belong to would be very supportive." She leaned in closer, until the detective thin lips were almost at her neck, over the jugular.

"Ich weiß nicht, zu wem ich gehöre, darling"

"Oh I think you do." There was no humor in his deep voice.

"Sei gutes Muts! Ich bin nicht wild." She laughed coyly.

"Sollst sanft in meinen Armen schlafen…" Sherlock whispered softly into the soft skin of her neck, sounding almost subdued.

The pale gleam of the first light of dawn had begun to peek its way through the flat's large windows, casting a heavenly glow about the pair as they froze in their parody of a lovers embrace.

John could not help but stare in wonder at the striking pair they made, two perfect examples of masculine and feminine beauty. Her caramel skin against the detective's alabaster, brown eyes staring into icy blue, she was soft curves and he was all hard thin lines. She slid an agile hand down his chest tapping him lightly a few times, before just as quickly plucking it away and flouncing towards the door. Something flashed in the woman eyes, almost like regret, as she pulled away.

"See you later soldier boy, and thanks for the coat." She called over her shoulder, before she disappeared down the stairs and a minute later out the door of 221B Baker Street into the snowy dawn air. Leaving John Watson and Sherlock Holmes very alone.

"What did she say to you, the German?"

"Be of good cheer, I am not a savage." Came the response, thoughtful and slow. The detective's pale hands were pressed together in front of his face, long thin fingers joined as if in prayer. His eyes were closed making his full dark lashes even more apparent in the dawn light.

" I never said you were." as the words left his lips john realized his mistake.

Sherlock's blue eyes snapped open as he gave John a look which, he was sure translated roughly from insane detective to English as 'you are the scum of the earth, John Watson' and responded in a tone so scathing it would have made a lesser man, run an hide. John Watson, however was made of sterner stuff, and just chose not to act on the impulse.

" That was what she said."

John wasn't sure if the detective added the 'you moron' or if his subconscious tacked it on just in case. Never the less, John did feel slightly foolish.

"Well that's rather cryptic, isn't it? What do you think she means?" The MI-6 operative noted in silence that the man had omitted what she had first said to him and filed it away for further use.

"It's a line of verse, a conversation between a lovely maiden and death: Der Tod und das Mädchen. Matthias Claudius. Franz Schubert composed a lovely string quartet of the same name, wonderful, actually. As to what she meant to say, I haven't the foggiest, could be anything really."

"You can't expect me to take that for an answer after what I just saw."

"Oh? And tell me _Doctor_ Watson what was it you think you saw?" His voice was mocking but there was an edge of curiosity in it.

"You could read everything about her; saw right through her story just by looking at her clothes! Hell, you even figured out about me…How- how do you do it?"

" I simply observe. Most people spend their lives drifting around from place to place seeing nothing, I just happen to be able to use my eyes, and my knowledge. You carry yourself like a military man, straight, stable, still. You are stronger than you look under all of those layers, although you were injured before. Shot in the…shoulder I think. Although now you are in superb physical shape for your age, which suggests that you either frequent the gym or you are still engaged in active service. Despite your awful outfit you don't look like a pencil pusher, too fit. You have a Walther PPK in a holster around your waist, covered by that frankly hideous jumper, so you must be here on field duty. Some sort of surveillance that requires inconspicuous dress, although whoever thinks an attractive man standing on the corner of the street all day in the snow is inconspicuous in the slightest, needs to lose their job. You came on your own, which tells me you can handle yourself even in high-risk situations, otherwise they never would have sent you out alone with just one gun, ruling out most federal bureaus. I can think of only one option which matches all of these facts, and that is that you work for MI-6. I happen to know for a fact that they have a pentient for hiring agents on the older side of thirty, especially when it comes to those of Double-O status. You were a doctor too though, the way you looked at her, giving her your coat in the cold, clearly diagnosing her for symptoms of stress or trauma related illness before and during our conversation."

John didn't know what to say, except: "That is the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life."

Sherlock looked taken aback, as if he had expected another reaction entirely.

"Do you really think so?" There was vulnerability in that voice, a sort of unsureness, which seemed so uncharacteristic for the confident man who kicked the police out of their own crime scenes without a second thought, and hurled abuse at them as they went.

"Yes…I do." The pause that followed seemed to stretch on for millennia, the sun's dull glow shining through the snow filled clouds outside. "And what was it you said? What was your reply to her?"

There was no answer.

The ring of a phone could be heard from the kitchen. Sherlock rose, standing in front of it until the tenth ring, before he picked it up in one thin, white hand, and answered in a haughty drawl.

"Yes?"

There was a pause as the person on the other end responded, and the detective cast a glance in John's direction, before speaking briskly.

"No, need. There is nothing to follow with this case, they were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

A pause.

"Oh, your man is still here, be a dear and do send someone for him." And with that he slammed the phone back down onto the receiver and literally jumped for joy. He paused his celebration for a moment, before pulling a slightly shell-shocked John up of the sofa, and dragging him own the stairs and out the front door, to the all to familiar black Audi that M seemed to favor. John opened the car, pausing with one hand on the door when he heard Sherlock's voice coming from the landing where the man was standing, literally one foot though the door.

" While I assume you have many questions for me, you will not have to wait long to hear the answers. We shall be seeing each other very soon I think, Doctor Watson."

John almost had a heart attack a millisecond later, when a black leather object came hurtling towards his head, he caught it deftly, and realized what it was.

It was his sodding wallet. _The bastard had probably had it the whole entire time!_

_"_Thought you'd like that back. Oh, don't worry. I didn't look through it, you were just being particularly annoying." The snobbish voice came from the door.

"What, and you pickpocket people when they annoy you?"

He didn't need to look at Sherlock to see the evil grin on the man's face, so instead he looked down at the ground trying to pull himself together.

"Who are you?" He asked the pavement in a tone that could only be described as awe.

"Later, Watson, all in good time. However, I must ask you, do you mind the violin?"

John thought back to the melody of yesterday, and put the pieces of the puzzle together.

"Love it." He said, looking back with a small smile on his face, but the detective had already disappeared behind the now closed navy blue door of 221B.

* * *

A/N: The first thing that 'Durga' says in German means "I don't know to whom I belong." I heard the line in the song sang by Marlene Dietrich and fell in love with two lines which Sherlock and Durga say are from "Death and the maiden" which is also the namesake of this chapter. The lied is here along with the translation is here: lieder/get_ ?TextId=3856 but the two lines I used are: "Sei gutes Muts! Ich bin nicht wild" and "Sollst sanft in meinen Armen schlafen." They may or may not be important to the story later on... but they also represent her, as she is a beautiful woman who is surrounded by death. Durga or "Shakti" is the consort of Shiva in the hindu religion. She takes many forms some milder and some fierce ( so you can see why she chose this name as an alias). Durga is her most terrible form and she is known for battle with Mahishasura. She carries many weapons given to her by the god's.

For more info feel free to check out this link: .

Please review and I hope you like this story.


	3. Moving Day

As John walked down the blindingly lit hallway he tried to wrap his mind around what had just occurred, and how on earth Sherlock had managed to get in contact with MI-6, let alone M, to have him picked up after he went offline. Maybe he was an agent doing some kind of deep cover mission. No, that was unlikely seeing as they wouldn't have sent John to monitor the house if an operative was anywhere near the sight let alone had a view of the street. But then again it was just as unlikely that MI-6 would be phoning some rich nutcase to retrieve a missing agent.

It was a common enough occurrence for double-oh operatives to drop off the face of the earth, sometimes for weeks at a time and MI-6 had eventually decided to just let them; it wasn't worth the time and resources to hunt them down only to discover them laid out on a beach in Tahiti. I guess there were some perks to being a government killer. Glass doorways lined the halls, leading to IT rooms of Q branch where the walls were stacked with LCD screens and John could see their anemic looking leader sipping a cup of tea and simultaneously typing some code into a monitor at a frightful speed, numerous training rooms, where agents were firing endless rounds into human shaped targets. The rest were offices, mostly standard, their tiny desks littered with undone paper work, which seemed to multiply by it self. No one seemed to put pictures or even books, all traces of individuality or personality had been erased. Not that it didn't make sense, of course, these days even this place was not safe.

" Hello, John." The deep amused voice came from behind him.

He would have jumped, but he was so used to this that now he had turned it into a rather violent twitch. Turning, he regarded the man dressed smartly in an immaculate suit.

"Hey James." He squeaked out voice struggling to regain normality. The infamous agent was incredibly fond of appearing out of nowhere when he was deep in thought to pull him violently out of said thought, like a sleeper with icy water. John secretly thought that 007 got off on making people feel uncomfortable, not that he could prove anything.

" I thought you were dead…again."

"Yeah, you know how management likes to overreact. Hiding out in Siberia for two months hardly qualifies as dead. Anyway, I heard you had a little adventure of your own yesterday." The blond looked at him with those all to familiar looking ice blue eyes, stirring something in John that made him shiver instinctively.

"Really?" he answered trying to make his tone sound casual and collected, but it just ended up sounding forced. Bond just smiled, his eyes knowing.

" We'll catch up later, yeah? The great and powerful M has summoned me." John said lightly, feeling strangely relieved that the other man hadn't pushed the issue, although he wasn't quite sure why.

"I'm sure we will."

They turned and walked their separate ways.

He had been sitting in M's office for about three minutes when the large mahogany door creaked open to reveal a very tired looking man, in his mid forties. It was a nice office, or would have been if there was anything in it besides a desk, two chairs, and a large filing cabinet. The only light came from the awful florescent lamps, which covered every available square centimeter of ceiling, and all of the walls were concrete painted a clinical white. There were some drawbacks to having your headquarters underground. John even thought he remembered hearing about a few people resigning due to the awful feeling of claustrophobia the place inspired. John didn't mid thought, he'd take a bunker over some place out in the open any day.

Too vulnerable.

The director walked briskly into the office, sitting down at the desk and pausing for a split second to pull out a large manila file from his leather briefcase. He pushed it across the tabletop to John, who ignored it and instead waited for his orders. Mallory sighed, running a hand through his thinning brown hair as he resolutely looked anywhere but at the agent sitting across from him.

"It's out of my hands, Watson. "

"Sorry sir?"

" You're being reassigned."

There was a feeling of shock, then anger, then pain, and finally " May I asked where sir."

Failing this mission had been bad enough, but he hadn't expected to be sacked for it, probably to be transported to somewhere in the middle of nowhere. At worst he thought he would get a talking too, but it seemed like even after spending almost all of your youth in her majesty's service could be chewed up and spat out for one mistake.

"Everything is in the file. I tried to fight this but in the end…" and this he said with suck a tone of distaste John was almost taken aback "I was out ranked."

In the silence, which followed, all that could be heard was the sound of the clock ticking ominously in the back round, and the soft breathing of the two men. John finally reached out to pull the file towards him, opening it up in one smooth movement, and then just as quickly dropping the offending object as if it had scalded him. M started, looking at him questioningly and a little bit sympathetically.

" This isn't a punishment Watson, actually you were requested, by a key member of parliament. You are to be dropped off at the address on the first page as soon as our meeting is concluded and you are equipped. The key objective of your mission is surveillance. I would love to tell you I knew what you are looking for, but I wasn't informed. You will be debriefed upon you arrival. Most of your belongings have already been moved. All of the relevant information is in the file which you are ordered to destroy as soon as you finish reading it."

The director paused again before continuing, his voice now calm and firm.

"Good luck, 003."

John couldn't respond, in fact he couldn't even breathe. It was as if he had just stopped, frozen in time.

On the very first page, paper clipped to the top right hand corner, was a picture of one Sherlock Holmes, smirking up at him, eyes shining with triumph.

* * *

He plucked at the strings of his violin, lightly. His elegant fingers ghosting over each measure; Tzigane. Easy of course, but beautifully composed even if it was Ravel, who he despised with a passion. I guess even the mediocre could occasionally produce something wonderful.

If Sherlock had bothered to look at the clock, or even had a clock in the living room to look at he would have noticed that he had not moved from this chair for two and a half hours. Not that it matters, of course. He could probably deduce how long he had been sitting there from the creases in the seat cushion. It was frankly amazing that no one else could, but then again everyone else was thick.

He lifted up the bow, experimentally playing a few notes, but was interrupted by the very irritating rumbling sound that signaled a call. He had meant to change the offending setting, but then again, it was irrelevant, hardly worth wasting valuable space with, and Sherlock Holmes did not concern himself with the irrelevant, he could just ask Molly to do it the next time he stopped by at the lab.

Sherlock lowered his violin carefully into its case, before rising to walk the oh-so painful there steps it would take to reach the kitchen table. He would have called Mrs. Hudson to go get it, but she had gone out. The stupid object continued to buzz insistently.

The number was blocked, not Lestrade with a case then. Well it would appear you couldn't have it all. He swiped the keypad to unlock the phone, momentarily bracing himself for the impending unpleasant trivial conversation.

"Yes?"

" Sherlock! I was beginning to think you were ignoring my calls." The familiar drawl washed over him, observant eyes narrowing in annoyance._ Idiot, if I was ignoring his calls I wouldn't have answered._

"How goes the investigation?" Mycroft pressed on, and Sherlock could practically see the repulsive being sitting at his mahogany desk signing stacks of papers. It wasn't what his brother said, as much as the way he said it. That patronizing tone, the same one parents used to speak to little children who, when asked where they were going at this hour in only their pants, replied; "to the west indies to become a pirate."

"I've nothing on at the moment. How goes the Diet?" He made his voice as sickeningly sweet as possible.

"Stop the games Sherlock, you are well aware that I have twenty-four hour surveillance on you." The government official's voice was clipped, a sure sign his patience with his little brother was wearing thin. "Why did you let the woman go? She was obviously holding something back."

The consulting Detective laughed, deep and musical.

"Ha- You dain to ell me what is obvious? She was not a threat and besides… she will be back here soon enough, anyway I don't see why you care. Isn't the government supposed to be rigging some election in the middle-east or something like that?"

Mycroft tactfully did not rise to the bait.

" Regardless Sherlock, that woman may have had potentially important information about the terrorist attacks." _Ahh so that's what you want_.

" You know how I hate to repeat myself but since you are being slower than usual I shall briefly recap. "Durga" is coming back, I'm sure of it."

There was a pregnant pause, and Sherlock could hear muffled sounds through the receiver as his brother rummaged through a sheaf of papers.

"Quite. Speaking of your new toys, brother dearest, the one you asked for should be arriving later on today. As he is government property" another pause " Please promise not to damage him."

" You wound me. John will be returned in mint condition. I assume you gave him my file."

" If by that you mean what was left of it, then yes."

Sherlock smirked with satisfaction.

" Sherlock, It is of the upmost importance that you find and locate this group. This is not a game."

" Oh but Mycroft, it is." And with that he disconnected the call, dropping the phone carelessly back on the table.

_Bored._

* * *

John managed to force out a halfhearted "yes sir" before, upon being dismissed, he walked to Q branch to collect his equipment. He walked slowly, so absorbed in the contense of the file that he nearly crashed in to two , Five lab techs, and a wall as his feet subconsciously carried him through the maze of corridors towards Q branch.

Sherlock Benedict Robert Holmes

Age: 30

Sex: Male

Occupation: "consulting" detective

Address: 221B Baker Street

Marital status: Single

Sexual orientation: Unknown

Medical conditions: Unknown

Arrested multiple times for drug use and possession (principally cocaine) in his late twenties. Holmes was brought up in a rich aristocratic family, and has two brothers. He was kicked out of Eton, Harrow, Oxford, and Cambridge; all of the reasons for expulsion were almost identical. While he has no record of psychiatric evaluations several of his former teachers have agreed to send in his files and records from school, along with his previous annual progress reports.

_"He does not cooperate with other students or with faculty. Holmes has on several occasions put members of his class in the hospital, and has at several points done very dangerous and damaging experiments on his roommates. A member of staff acting as his dorm monitor found several illegal substances in his room including: an unregistered gun, nitroglycerin, cocaine, and small doses of methamphetamine. He is very volatile and unpredictable, and prone to verbally abusing classmates and faculty. Under no circumstances should he be admitted to any government program. It is our firm belief that the best place for Sherlock Holmes is behind the walls of a mental institution. "_

_- Thomas Ford Hamilton_

_ President of Oxford _

Holmes has been working as a detective for ten years in an official capacity for the London police force. He was given the opportunity by Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of Scotland yard, who has taken Mr. Holmes under his wing, after finding him passed out in an alley after almost fatally overdosing on Cocaine. He speaks several languages fluently and publishes a blog called "the science of deduction". He has proved to be an asset to her majesty's government several times and it is imperative that he not be informed as to the nature of this mission. All other data on Mr. homes has been deleted from the database and it is highly possible that this was his own doing. The information in this file is all that was left on paper in government archives and was provided by his elder brother.

{1}

John turned the page and then the next, until he finally reached the other piece of manila card.

There were floor plans and blueprints of the apartment, information on practically everyone who had ever passed through the neighbor hood, along with some truly frightening (but hilarious) anecdotes about Sherlock as provided by assorted teachers, maids, and classmates. Other than that it was pretty uninformative. There was no mention of what exactly he was supposed to be watching out for, or what the objective of this mission was. In fact M had old him point bank that even he didn't know what the it was and it always boded ill when even your boss couldn't tell you what your job was supposed to be.

John Watson was to aid Sherlock Holmes in any way possible, and that was it.

_"We shall be seeing each other very soon I think, Doctor Watson." _

Fuck.

Someone cleared his throat, and John looked up feeling slightly disorientated. A pair of grey green eyes framed by a pair of horn rimmed glasses looking inquisitively at him over a mug of steaming hot tea.

" I asked you if you had come to collect your equipment."

"Sorry! I got a little caught up in this." He waved the file in explanation, smiling at the young quartermaster.

" That must be very interesting then." His voice was light, almost as if he was on some far off planet, while John felt as if he was in his own private government owned sector of hell.

"You have no idea…" he murmured in response.

Q was very smart, a genius in fact, and unlike a lot of the other techs who seemed to act as if the field agents were a bunch of trained monkeys was always nice to John (even when he did do stupid things like stand in front of his desk staring at the end of a file for twenty minutes). He was dressed today in a large navy jumper, tight fitting burgundy colored slacks, a white button down, and a scarlet bowtie. John liked the way Q dressed, always very quirky and (although he would never say it to the mans face) adorable.

" So, what do you have for me this time?" smiling as Q's eyes lit up with an excitement that John had only ever seen there when the kid got to talking about his latest pet project.

"Well I don't get to give you much, seeing as its surveillance, but." There was a pause as he dug around through the drawers of his desk finally pulling out a small black case and placing I on the desktop. Long white fingers quickly unlocked and opened it revealing a run, a com wire, and small black rectangle. The black object turned out to be a sodding notebook…John just stood there holding it in one hand staring in disbelief, while Q prattled on about all of the fancy upgrades he had added.

" I have outfitted the note book with a voice and finger print activated lock. It is encased in a shell of titanium so it pretty much indestructible. There is also a tracking device planted in the binding encase of any trouble. I think the other two objects are self explanatory."

" So, let me get this straight, they are sending me on a mission without telling me what the mission is and giving me nothing but a gun, a com, and a _notebook_?"

The quartermaster didn't miss a beat. " You will be recording anything and everything which occurs to you on a daily basis in this note book."

John's eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline.

"They want me to keep a diary? Is this a joke?" he looked around waiting for someone to jump out and declare it all some large elaborate prank. He could already think of about ten people who would find this funny, and he swore when he got his hands on them, it would not be pretty.

" Did Bond put you up to this?" he asked he confused looking twenty year old in a voice that could have frozen a bonfire.

Puzzled, Q shook his head. "I wanted to give you a computer, but those can be compromised. You can't hack a notebook."

This had to be the worst day of his whole entire life.

* * *

After a car ride which seemed to take hours John Watson was deposited for the second time in the past two days in front of 221B Baker street, only this time he had a cardboard box under his left arm, and the car was not coming to pick him up again.

The front door was unlocked, so after a moments pause he entered. The hall light was on, but it was so eerily quiet that he began to wonder if anyone was home. Perhaps the lady- Mrs. Hudson- he corrected himself, was at home, and Sherlock had gone out. Although the detective had probably been informed what time he would arrive, and John had a sneaking suspicion Sherlock Holmes would not allow strangers the chance to disrupt his chaos by trying to get comfortable.

The sound of a gunshot shattered the silence, and was followed in quick succession by four more, as if someone had just emptied a whole clip into something or _someone_. "Shit" he murmured, dropping the box and sprinting up the stairs as he pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket. _Please don't be dead! Please don't be dead!_ That was the last thing he needed today, to have his government assigned flat mate lying dead on the floor.

When he reached the living room breathing hard, every muscle in his body tensed for a fight, he was greeted with the sight of Sherlock Holmes wrapped in nothing but a white sheet, smoking gun in hand. The victim of this violent attack was a yellow smiley face, spray-painted onto the wallpaper of the wall opposite the detective.

"John! Finally. I need to borrow your phone."


	4. Unexpected Calls

"S-s-sorry?" He stuttered, quickly averting his eyes, the detective however just looked at John like he was slow, his partial nudity ignored.

"Phone. Need. Give it to me." Sherlock plopped down onto the sofa, lying, or rather, lounging on the pine green piece of furniture looking for all the world as if he was posing for Michael Angelo. The agent felt his mouth go dry, his highly irritating and unhelpful mind completing the picture, or rather, subtracting the sheet. The consulting detective's raven curls were rumpled and his thin lips were the shiny red of someone who had been biting them in concentration, or frustration.

John hastily dug around in his jacket pocket, pulling out his very old, very battered Nokia phone. Most of the younger agents and all of the tech guys working for the agency took the piss out of him for it, but he always calmly replied that "if you are in the middle of a mission which requires running, jumping, getting punched and shot at, an I-phone wouldn't last three minutes." Of course it was a piece of shit, but it was freaking indestructible.

At last his fingers closed around the plastic body, pulling the phone out of his pocket he held it out, but the genius made no move to retrieve it. In fact a quick glance at the man on the couch revealed that Sherlock had closed his eyes, like he was asleep.

"Do you still want the phone, or…?" John trailed off, unsure of what to say as those ice blue eyes flew open and fixed him with a piercing gaze.

"Yes. I still need the phone, now hurry up, I don't have time to waste on stupid questions." With that he closed his eyes again, leaving a very confused john standing in the middle of the room. When the phone didn't appear in front of him, Sherlock sighed dramatically extending one whipcord thin arm, palm upturned. Something clicked and John finally understood. He wants me to put it in his hand? " Lets not wait for the grass to grow." The detective winged, voice drawn.

John walked hesitantly towards the sheet-draped man, heart rate accelerating just a little as he looked down on him. Before his mind supplied the agent with any particularly bad ideas, he dropped it in the outstretched hand like it was made of molten iron and quickly retreated. Always a smart tactic when one felt out of his depth.

When he reached a safe distance John took the time to look around the room again attempting to look everywhere but at his flat mate's incredibly pale, lithe form. There was no sound but the faint clicking of keys as Sherlock attacked the keyboard.

The agent wandered into the small kitchen struck with a sudden interest in examining the immense amount of clutter covering every inch of a sturdy wooden dining table. A pile of books lay open around a microscope. They proved to be works on various diseases, toxins, and pathogens all bound in the same deep blue leather that the detective seemed to favor, all annotated with spidery black handwriting. A lone test tube stood sadly in a wooden rack, filled with a large amount of deep red liquid-god John really hoped that wasn't blood. He was about to continue his exploration of the kitchen when he saw something to make him pause.

On the opposite end of the table was a small black book. The small black book from his first visit to the flat on that snowy night. He inhaled sharply mind kicking into overdrive, fueled by curiosity, which threatened to consume him. What was in that book that this eccentric man had not wanted him to see? _But maybe- maybe it was nothing, just an address book, or a memorandum fro appointments? No, remember the way he looked at you when you were going to open it, that tone. Nobody is that protective of something so trivial._

He reached out a tentative hand, but froze as he felt a flood of heat, a solid force pressing him forward.

"What have I told you about touching other people's belongings." It whispered, flowing like liquid desire.

The deep voice interrupted his train of thought, and he turned his head slowly to find Sherlock behind him, leaning into him as if for support but still so strong. The consulting detective was looking over John's shoulder at the little book, eyes stony and dead looking. John could feel the thin man's hot breath on his neck, the feeling making him shiver slightly.

"Thank you." Came those deep, purring tones and John gasped as he felt a thin hand slide around his waist and press into his pocket.

Only it didn't remain, it was quickly pulled away leaving the borrowed phone in its original place. He felt slightly colder as the detective pulled away, walking over to the stove, putting on a kettle. Sherlock's handsome face was expressionless but for a slight furrowing of his brow. Neither spoke and the only sounds were that of the detective rummaging around the kitchen as he made a pot of tea.

John looked down at his shoes, trying to think of something to say to make this moment less painfully awkward. This was really not a great way to begin at all, and if this was any indication the next few months, or however long this was going to take, was going to be miserable. Outside the sky was grey, the clouds heavy with a snow which would most likely fall that night.

A cup of tea was suddenly thrust into his line of vision. He took it taking a reluctant sip as Sherlock watched him from his perch on the counter top. The familiar taste of Earl grey flooded his mouth; milk and no sugar precisely the way he liked it. How had- Sherlock just smirked. John faintly heard him murmur something about his lapels in a smug tone as he continued to rapidly type information into a-

"Th-that's a phone"

"Well spotted" came the sarcastic reply.

" If you had a phone there the whole time, then why did you need mine?"

That earned him a withering look.

"Your phone was more convenient."

If John had been asked what his emotions were at that very second he would have replied that they were a mixture of "confusion, amusement, and irritation" because that had to be one of the most ridiculous things he had ever heard.

"Let me get this straight, you asked for my phone because you didn't want to walk the three- no two- meters it would have taken you to get to yours?"

"Precisely, maybe you aren't as useless as you look." Sherlock said with a degree of sincerity that almost made john want to laugh out loud (or punch him).

" You can't be serious."

"I am, in fact. You have left your belongings downstairs. I suggest you go get them. You will be sleeping in the second bedroom to the left, the first one on the right is mine, and I would appreciate if you didn't enter it unless I give you permission to do so. If you want anything to eat I suggest you go to the store, I'm sure your master have provided you with money. I don't have many rules but there are a few which deserve mentioning. Do not touch my experiments, do not move any of my belongings, an don't bring people back to the flat unless I give you permission."

"Anything else your highness?" John asked darkly.

"Yes." Sherlock smiled wickedly.

"Welcome to Baker Street, Mr. Watson."

* * *

The office was nice, large but still cozy with its hardwood floors and armchairs. Large windows flanked the large desk at which a young man was sitting, their curtains drawn back to reveal the sprawling city of London bellow. The grey light of winter flooded into the room giving it a chilly glow, kept at bay by the heater and warm light of the lamps inside the room. A small picture frame was propped up in between two large stacks of files, from which an array of multicolored tabs were poking out. The image showed the young man standing in the middle of a park. It was fall and all around him were falling leaves in various shades of red, yellow, gold, orange, and brown. He was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a tan leather jacket over a white button down. At first glance he would have appeared to be alone but in the corner, almost out of shot, was another figure. A woman leaning back against the thick trunk of an oak, her thick brown hair was being whipped around by the wind, obscuring her face from view.

At last he looked up from the screen of his laptop, leaning back into his large chair, eyes closed blissfully. The sound of car horns floated up to the office, the muted din of the city polluting even this place, most likely those returning home after an outing with friends or family.

Victor Wei, as the small gold font on the door was proclaimed, looked more like a high fashion model rather than a banker. His Armani suit was pressed to perfection, not a single crease in his white shirt, thin black tie straight as an arrow. Victor smoothed a perfectly manicured hand through his thick black hair, exhaling deeply before looking down at his watch; 4:20.

The building was empty, even the security guards had been given the day off. Typically no one would be working this late on a Sunday, but Victor needed to finish this account before Monday and there was no need to call the others in to help out.

His mobile buzzed and with a sigh he picked it up, sliding his finger along the screen to unlock the device. He thought it would probably be a call from one of the guys to tell him the score of the game, or complain about how he was always to busy to go out for drinks, but the name flashed "unavailable."

"不要伤心. 死亡是慈悲" a painfully familiar voice rang out across the receiver.

"这是谁"he asked shakily, already knowing the answer.

"你知道"

Unbidden tears began to well in his eyes.

"为什么？为什么 ，梦－"

"再见，伟先生"The dial tone rang out in the silence.

The office exploded.

* * *

Notes: Yes Yes, I know first german now chinese, what is this crazy person on about. Youl find out I promise. Unlike the german this chinese is not from a translator, as I lived in China and can speak decent mandarin although my writing sucks, but oh well you cant win em all. Chinese translations.  
不要伤心. 死亡是慈悲: Don be upset, death is a mercy  
这是谁: who is this  
你知道: you know  
为什么: why  
再见，伟先生: goodbye, mr. wei  
梦-: This is the begging of a name. The rest will be revealed later but this character on its own means 'dream.' Thanks for the kudos! It really keeps me motivated to continue writing this. If you have any questions or find any errors or just want to let me know what you think of the story please drop me a comment. It is so helpful and means a lot to me. Thanks!


	5. The Great Game

December 12, 2012

"Day One"

Not quite sure what I am even supposed to be recording in this thing, but Q told me I was supposed to write everything and be truthful, so if anyone has issues with it, go down to tech and complain to him. I'm just under orders after all.

First day at Baker street, and it has already proved to be one of the strangest experiences of my life. Was woken up at two A.M with a violin piece which I was very crossly informed was "Paganini Violin Concerto N. 1" it was pretty, beautiful even, but I would appreciate it if he could keep it down. Sherlock went on a very long rant about how sleep was useless and a general waste of time, I walked out after about ten minutes but I think he just kept on talking. I slept again until about six thirty.

When I went downstairs for breakfast Sherlock was still in the exact place he had been last night, sitting in that armchair of his looking like some romantic painting of a magician. The only thing that had changed was that in place of the violin he was holding the skull from the mantle piece in between his palms, and seemed to be whispering to it. I only caught something about nitroglycerin being too obvious before he realized I was there. He rose, carefully returning the skull to its place before daining to ask me in a very bored voice whether "I was going to waste more time with breakfast?" and if so ordered me to make him a cup of tea. Not wanting to start our relationship off with an argument I acquiesced, which proved to be an even bigger mistake because he said "interesting" in that low, sultry voice of his and proceeded to stare at me like I was a very interesting discovery.

He complained about the temperature of the tea.

I read the paper, or at least tried to, as Sherlock spent the better part of an hour pacing about the flat, muttering under his breath about the "hateful absence of a homicide, terrorist attack, massacre" and other suitably morbid events. I was about to ask him if he was going to do anything other than pace all day, when his phone rang. The conversation was almost over before it began.

"I'm on my way. No need to send a squad car, I'll catch a cab." He said curtly into the receiver. Whoever it was on the other line had no time to say anything else as Sherlock flicked the phone closed, making it disappear into his front pocket.

He turned to me smiling like the cat that got the canary. The nutter strode quickly over to a coatrack tucked in the corner, whirling a great navy blue coat about his shoulders with a dramatic flourish. He looked exactly as he had the night I had met him, blue eyes flashing with barely contained excitement. Before I had a chance to say or do anything, he was out the door. Only then a moment later, a head of thick curls popped back around the door.

" aren't you coming."

" Coming where?"

" the crime scene of course." He said it in that 'everybody else is such an idiot' voice, and then disappeared out the door yet again.

So I took a final sip of my coffee, grabbed my coat and followed the psychopath down to the waiting taxi.

The taxi ride to our mystery destination was tense to say the least, mostly due to the fact that Sherlock was so lost in thought, his eyes seemed glassy and distant. He sat lazily, as if he owned the world but still had an air of wary alertness about him. He looked ghostly to but it bluntly, and his intense focus was unsettling. The silence was heavy, and as I watched his pale eyes shift and dance like reflections a pool I wondered what it was. The anger or passion which drove this impossible man.

I had seen that look before, that same anger in everyday staring back at me in the mirror. Seeing it in Sherlock Holmes, made me highly uncomfortable for this was not the look of a civilian, in fact this was not even the look of a killer. It was something far more dangerous.

I couldn't help but sigh with relief as we pulled to a stop and sherlock swept out of the vehicle leaving me to settle the bill.

By the time I had payed, and our car had sped off into the distance in search of other prey, the detective was nowhere to be seen. Our mystery destination was an office building, identical to almost a hundred to be found in this part of london. The only differentiating factor was that this one had a gaping hole in its side, a wound caused by some powerful detonation.

The early morning was filled with the sound of flashbulbs, and the din of press all yelling into their cell phones. Most of them were complaining very audibley about the fact that the police, and "D.I Lestrade' had booted them out of the building. I pushed my way through the throng, recieving dirty looks from a few paps as I was granted access by a policewoman with flyaway hair, and a no-nonsense expression.

" John Watson...um, Im with-"

" So you're the one who's babysitting the freak?" Her tone was so filled with disapproving disgust that I, not for the first time today, had no idea how to respond to.

"You're boss finally get sick of him running off? not that I blame him, you get stuck with a weirdo like that as a brother and I'd want someone to monitor him too, might kill you in your sleep if you're not careful."

"S-sorry?"

"Sherlock Holmes? The mind reading psychopath in the big blue coat? Yeah well, take my advice, and get as far away from that man as possible. He's unstable, gets off on murder and destruction."

" If you'll excuse me ma'am." I said flatly, biting the inside of my cheek to avoid saying anything else. I know one thing for sure, I did not like this "Sally Donovan' woman, as her badge proclaimed her to be. There was something about her which seemed wrong, and unlikable.

" Stay away from him, or it'll be your body were scraping off the walls next!" Her shrill voice called after me.

The lobby was filled with a writhing swarm of police officers, interrogating employees, security guards, cleaning ladies, and anyone else who could be roped into giving a statement. suprisingly enough it didn't take me very long to locate my charge, as he was currently insulting a pale, rat faced man, who was blocking his entrance to the only elevator still in operation, very very loudly.

"Listen, Anderson. While it may be difficult for a moron like you to wrap you head around this concept, I am here on the request of you superior and if you do not let me through, I assure you you may find yourself worse off than you could ever imagine."

As I drew closer I could see the other man's face contort in a mixture of intense hatred and dislike.

"You have no power here, freak. Why don't you leave this to the professionals, and fuck off back to wherever you came from?"

Sherlock snorted loudly, his icy blue eyes flashing with cold hatred.

"Fine, I'll 'fuck off' and leave you imbeciles to let the murderer get away, as usual. He is too smart for you anyway, he probably could have left a giant sign, covered in flashing lights, with his name and confession in the office and you would still get it into your head that it was a suicide or some other idiotic conclusion. So, good luck Anderson." His voice was sickeningly sweet, and turning sharply on his heel, in a whirl of coat and curls he was walking briskly towards me.

" Who was that?"

His face contorted slightly.

"Oh, no one. Just a self important idiot who seems to think he has the ability to solve this case. Ha, as if that was even a possibility. Follow me." He hurtled off yet again, and I had to jog just to catch up to him as we slipped around the bend into a corridor. We went through a small door, almost hidden by a gargantuan potted plant, and ended up in what looked like the set for some sort of horror movie flickering lights and all, until sherlock flicked another switch on the wall, finally illuminating the concrete room with a dim light. It was a stairwell.

Sherlock began to climb quickly, looking back briefly to make sure I as following.

"You knew this was here the whole time didn't you?"

He smirked in response.

" So then what was with that show you put on out there?"

" I needed to get something" and he pulled out of his pockets, a manilla file, along with a police badge which he tossed to me.

"How the bloody hell did you manage to get a whole file off him?" and then with an amused chuckle, when Sherlock merely smiled "You know that is probably about five kinds of illegal right."

" Ah! but the complying with the law never gets anyone very far, John."

We emerged from a small side corridor, and walked towards the scene of the crime. A chunck of the building had been blown off, so their were now walls of plastic to protect any evidence from the wind. A grey haired man stood in the center of the chaos looking as if he hadn't slept in days.

"Lestrade."

The detective inspector turned, a look of relief crossing his face as saw sherlock.

" Finally. 've been waiting for an hour."

" You can thank Anderson for that. We took the stairs."

" Sorry about him." Greg said sounding honestly sympathetic, but the detective was ignoring him completely in favor of the corpse, or what was left of it, lying in the remains of a desk.

" Who was he?"

" A banker, named Victor Wei. He just got back from a trip to Shanghai about a month ago, but otherwise, it seems like he kept to himself. He's clean, no mob connections, financial trouble. It doesn't make any sense."

Sherlock was scanning the room.

" Did anything survive the explosion?"

"Yeah, just some stuff in the safe, and a few things in the be honest I'm surprised that much survived. The blast was pretty strong, I mean it knocked the wall out, but a couple of books survive? who'da thought it."

"Thats because, they were supposed to survive."

Both Lestrade and I looked at him questioningly.

" What do you mean? we are lucky to have the corpse, why would the bomber leave books?"

" Oh come on, Its obvious." Sherlocked looked at them pleadingly, as if to say 'please, oh please, don't be that thick." When neither of us offered any sort of guess, he sighed dramatically.

" It's a clue. our bomber is sending us a message." He paused to pull something out of the evidence bag, with his latex gloved hand. The book was small, with a rather unremarkable cover, the pages dog-eared, and the spine wrinkled from use. In bold font the title was proclaimed to be "The Great Game: The Struggle for Empire in Central Asia." Sherlock was grinning with barely contained joy.

**" Don't you see? The game is on, lestrade. The game is on." and with a whirl of blue coat, he was gone. **


End file.
